Aftermath for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018
by geekmama
Summary: Seven stories set in my 'Aftermath' universe, written and posted for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2018 (March 4-10), with thanks to Ellis Hendricks for beta reading!
1. Beautiful

_**~ Beautiful ~**_

 _For Sunday, March 4th, Theme: Teen!lock / Uni!lock / Early Friendship_

* * *

He was, she thought, the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Well, _boy_. Or _young_ man, she supposed. William Holmes, a graduate student in his last months at their university and assigned, apparently much against his will, to work as a teacher's assistant in Molly's mid-level organic chemistry class.

Most of the class consisted of students in their third year of pre-clinical studies, but Molly was only in her first and had been allowed to skip ahead in this particular area, having proven herself in an elite symposium the previous summer, straight from completing her grammar school career and A levels with top marks in both biology and chemistry. It _was_ a bit extraordinary, and she believed it was this circumstance that had brought her to William's attention.

Or she hoped that was it, and not the fact that she barely looked old enough to be attending university at all, much less such an advanced class.

She had to admit, his initial reaction to her presence had not been entirely positive. In fact, the first time he'd really looked at her he'd had the oddest expression on his face, rather as though she were some insect sitting atop his order of chips: horrified fascination coupled with a strong desire to flick her away without more ado. But after some weeks, during which she had shown she was not only capable of doing the work, but of excelling, he had at least seemed willing to concede her right to be there.

And now, months later, he merely ignored her. Which was fine, since it gave her more opportunity to look at _him_.

He _was_ beautiful. Handsome, but in an oddly different, almost _unearthly_ way. Quite tall and almost too thin, but with a grace and hinted musculature that spoke of the accomplished athlete. Not team sports: the narrowed eyes and curled lip he displayed at the mere sight of two of her fellow organic chem students, star rugby players Glen Harrison and Colin Whitcomb, told her that much. William Holmes was rumored to have been one of the more valued members of the track and field program at one time, and she knew he boxed (dreadful sport, once he'd come in with a split lip and a plaster adorning an elegant cheekbone, and had given a wry, rather crooked grin at her gasp of horror), and he fenced as well - she had heard Glen and Colin jeering about the latter…

 _Thinks he's in one of those bodice-ripper novels, or all set to slay a dragon!_

This remark had the opposite effect to that they'd presumably intended, for from that day Molly had been afflicted with a vivid, ongoing fantasy in which William Holmes was, indeed, a hero straight from a romance and she was the most appreciative heroine. She had the wit not to indulge in these daydreams too often - she was a sensible girl, and had _goals_. Plans for the future. But when she was tired, or feeling low, or overwhelmed, she sometimes allowed herself to contemplate the delicious (and often embarrassingly explicit) scenarios that seemed to rise unbidden from her hormone-addled brain.

Hormones could certainly do strange things to one - particularly with the person of William Holmes regularly on hand to provide inspiration.

 **o-o-o**

"Meena, you know I hate this sort of party. I won't know _anyone!_ " Molly complained as they crossed the street toward the house where said party was going forward, full-blast.

"Bollocks. You know _me!_ " Meena retorted, and grabbing Molly's wrist, she virtually dragged her along to join the throng of students queuing to enter.

It was an old Victorian mansion, a private dwelling, located perhaps a mile from campus, but the upkeep was no doubt horrific and as a result, the couple who owned it occupied only one wing, the remaining rooms being let to older university students. It was not at all notorious as a party venue, though that might change after this night's doings. The owners had flown off to the U.S. to attend the graduation of their son from some American university and they had foolishly left the running of the house to a couple of their tenants, one of whom was a most enterprising economics major. He was actually selling tickets to this illicit blowout, and was obviously doing very well for himself, Molly thought, as she and Meena finally got in the door and shouldered their way through the throng, deafened by music that precluded any chance of real conversation.

"Come on!" shouted Meena. "Tracy and Steve are over by the bar."

They entered a big room that ordinarily might have served as a quiet common area for the house, but was now heavily populated with noisy drinkers. They were served from an enormous makeshift bar that had been set up across one end of the room and stocked with libations of all sorts. Meena whistled and waved to a small group of boys and girls gathered at one end of the bar, and contrary to her expectation. Molly recognized several of them, including Tracy and Steve, who, lacking much sense, could be expected to be among the most riotous guests. Molly also noticed one other familiar face: Glen Harrison was one of a knot of fellow rugby players, all of them well on their way to being completely pissed, and unfortunately he happened to look up just as Molly and Meena were passing by. Molly looked quickly away, but not before she saw his sloppy grin and rising brows.

Bloody hell, she thought, feeling annoyed with Glen, Meena, and most of all herself. She should have stood firm and refused to come - but then Meena would have had a days-long sulk and Molly would have felt guilty and cowardly, both.

Perhaps she could escape before long. She'd have a drink with Meena, then make some excuse and take her leave…

"Molly!" came Glen's familiar and unwanted voice.

Molly turned and pasted on a smile. "Glen! Thought I saw you over there. Having fun?"

"Yeah, but you need a drink!"

Molly winced as Glen shoved his way to the bar to order, not bothering with such niceties as _Excuse me!_ or _What would you like, Molly?_

"We need a G&T over here, stat!" Glen demanded.

Molly sighed. She would have preferred a cider. And a _Please_ to the bartender might have been nice _._

 **o-o-o**

Glen Harrison wanted to show her his etchings.

"Seriously, Molly, one of the blokes who lives here's an art history major and his room's great, loads of interesting stuff - you'll love it!"

"Thanks but no," Molly said, shaking her head - which was a mistake, that G&T had been far too strong, too much, and she was actually feeling the slightest bit queasy, light-headed… just a trifle pissed herself. She began to giggle, thinking how Mum would approve of her being such a cheap date - showed her inexperience with such matters, certainly.

Well, at least she knew not to trust a reptile like Glen farther than she could throw him.

However, two things then occurred.

First, Glen said, "C'mon, Molly, you'll like it. And I think you need to sit down for a bit, out of this noise, don't you?" This consideration seemed… _nice…_ if out of character, and she peered at him (a trifle blearily), really looked for the first time that evening. He was smiling… friendly. He did seem sincere. And he was very fit, if a bit on the beefy side.

When Molly replied, "Well, yes. Maybe just for a few minutes," and Glen chirped, "Good girl!" and grinned and put his arm around her to lead her away, the second thing happened. She caught sight of something… someone… out of the corner of her eye… someone _beautiful_ …

She frowned and tried to turn to see, and just caught the straight set of a slender back, a ruffle of dark curls… and then a glimpse of profile as the dark head bent to hear what some other girl was saying. The girl was laughing…

But then Molly lost sight of him, her insistent escort leading her away and up the wide, ornate staircase.

 **o-o-o**

It was somewhat quieter upstairs, and quieter still as Glen led her confidently down the hallway to the room he wanted to show her. They weren't quite alone, other couples seemed to be taking advantage of the less raucous atmosphere and relative privacy afforded by various alcoves as well as the bedrooms, though certainly not to look at art.

"This is it," Glen said, opening the door of a room near the end of the passage, charming indeed, with pictures of all sorts covering the walls, just as he'd averred, and featuring a round study alcove, part of one of house's several towers. There was also a big brass-framed bed situated against the wall, and it was toward this that Glen led her.

She tried to tug her hand away, dig in her heels. "Wait, we're here to look at the art!"

"Hell with the art," Glen said with a leer, though he did stop - but only to pull her into a rough embrace.

"Stop it!" she protested, but then could say no more beneath a shockingly horrid, beery kiss.

She struggled, shoving against him, but that only made him laugh.

He loosened his hold just enough to say, "C'mon, Molly, I know you're up for it. I've seen the way you look at me."

"I do _not!_ " she exclaimed, outraged, but then gave a little shriek as he tipped them toward the bed where they landed with a bounce in an inelegant heap. " _What are you doing?_ " Angrily, she tried to knee him where it would do the most good, but he foiled her efforts with ease and rolled on top of her. "No! _Glen_ -"

But her strained attempt at a scream was stopped by another messy kiss, and his weight, and the strength of him were terrifying. She squirmed frantically, feeling decidedly sick, no possibility of escape-

And then, to her astonishment, his weight was suddenly gone, hefted up and away from her - and by William Holmes!

"She said _no_ , idiot," he snarled as he shoved Glen away, toward the door.

But Glen was big and lithe, and though he staggered back, he didn't fall, and, with his surprise quickly replaced by a look of sheer hatred, he sneered, "Well, if it isn't the bloody _freak!_ " and Molly gasped in horror as the bigger man launched himself at William. Yet, before she could scream, something happened, almost too quickly to take in. Holmes dodged and struck, not just once, but two or three times, with efficiency and an utterly effective economy of motion. It was astounding, like something from a Bond film, and just like that, Glen was laid out on the floor, groaning faintly, incapacitated.

William sniffed, glaring down at his victim with distaste, a slight, not entirely pleasant smile playing on those beautiful lips. And then he looked up at Molly, who was still on the bed staring at him, the dregs of her fear now tinged with wonder.

His smile disappeared. He stepped over the prone carcass on the floor, saying, "Let's get you out of here."

He reached for her and those elegant fingers gripped her upper arm and summarily hefted her off the bed, too, rather more easily and quickly than had been the case with Glen. She got a glimpse of an odd light in William's eyes, and realized he wasn't entirely sober, either. But she had no chance to say anything, for he did not let her go, but on the contrary, pulled her along after him, though he did let his hand sllde down to grip her wrist, which looked a trifle less manhandley (and was that even a word?).

Out the bedroom door, down the hall, down the stairs, across the wide foyer. The music was blasting loud as ever, or louder, the booming bass making her head throb, but even so Molly thought she heard Meena call to her as they approached the front doors that now stood open, letting in blessed fresh air and a glimpse of the star-strewn night sky. She started to turn in Meena's direction, but William Holmes snapped some indecipherable admonition and tightened his grip, pulling her out the door, across the wide porch, down the three steps…

"William, _wait!_ " she finally half-shouted (the music wasn't quite as deafening out in front of the house, but close). To her surprise he did stop, and he turned to her.

"What? Do you want to go back in?"

She opened her mouth. Then closed it again. And then said, "No. Of course not."

"Didn't think so," he said, mildly, and started off again.

"Wh-where are we going?" Molly managed to ask between great gulps of cool night air.

"I need a smoke. We'll go down by the river. And then _you're_ going home."

And she laughed. For the joy of being away from that horrid party and the horrid Glen, and all through the agency of the most beautiful man she knew.

He glanced at her, and his stormy brow cleared. He slowed his pace. His grip on her wrist loosened, then released. He said to her (or _drawled_ , really), "Speaking of idiots, what possessed you? You did everything wrong tonight. I won't be there next time, you know."

"There won't be a next time," she said with conviction.

He gave a chuff of laughter, but nodded. "Good."

After that, they walked along side by side in silence. But it was a comfortable one.

 **o-o-o**

He lit a cigarette, offered it to her (she accepted), then lit another for himself before flopping down on the grass under the warm night sky. She sat down cross-legged beside him, the better to see him. His eyes were unfocused, looking up at the stars. The river murmured it's quiet music. It was a perfect May evening - now.

"You're leaving soon?" she finally asked, after a few minutes.

"Mmm. Next week."

"What are you going to do?" She couldn't imagine him settling into any ordinary job.

"Dunno. My brother has a couple of things for me, and then… who knows?"

"Does your brother own a business where you can use your degree?"

He laughed. "Not exactly. Interesting work, though. I won't be bored."

"Is that a problem for you?"

"God yes!" He looked over at her. "It's the very heart of the matter."

She frowned, wondering a little what he might mean.

They smoked in silence for a couple more minutes, and then he sat up, stubbed out his cigarette, took hers (without asking) and did the same. Then he rose to his feet with that easy grace that always made her heart still and held out his hand to her. "Come on. Let's get you home."

 **o-o-o**

Ten years later, in her first month at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, Molly was processing a series of slides in the lab when her supervisor, Mike Stamford, came in, accompanied by two other men. She looked up with an enquiring smile as Mike spoke.

"Dr. Molly Hooper, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of NSY, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. They're investigating Mrs. Johnstone's death. They've seen the report, but can you take them down and show them the body, and give them any other help they might need? Within reason, of course."

Mike turned a wry look on Sherlock Holmes, who merely raised a brow.

Molly was standing now, a bit pale as Lestrade smiled at her and shook her hand. Sherlock Holmes also murmured a greeting, surveying her without much enthusiasm.

There was absolutely no recognition in the piercing, pale eyes.

She pulled herself together. "A consulting detective?" she managed to ask without either stammering or squeaking.

But it was Lestrade who replied, in a teasing voice, " _Only one in the world_ , as he'll point out at the drop of a hat." He grinned as Sherlock's eyes narrowed at him, and added, "Seriously, though, he's cracked some seemingly impossible cases for me."

 _Well, that must keep the level of boredom to a minimum,_ she thought. But she only said, "I'll be happy to help you both in any way I can."

Lestrade nodded. "If you'll lead the way, then, Dr. Hooper?"

She did, feeling awkward, elated, and disappointed, all at once. But after all, why should he remember her?

And since he brought up the rear as they headed down to the morgue, neither she, nor anyone else, saw the curve of those beautiful lips as Sherlock considered the person and the vast new potential of _Dr._ Molly Hooper.

~.~


	2. Bumps in the Road

_**~ Bumps in the Road ~**_

 _For Monday, March 5th, Theme: Early Relationship_

* * *

 ** _~ Day Four..._**

"I could get used to this," Sherlock said, as contented as he'd ever been in his life.

"Yes," said Molly, and she squeezed his hand.

"But we are not naming him Calvin."

Molly sighed.

They were still in their dressing gowns and pyjamas, seated side by side on the porch steps. The early morning air was cool and fresh, the sun shone thin but with the promise of a beautiful spring day, and they were watching their new Basset Hound puppy as he took his first post-breakfast run and sniff around the back garden.

Sherlock was not one who ordinarily waxed poetic, but the quest they'd undertaken the day before, to fetch the puppy from Anthea's cousin's farm in Exmoor, still seemed little short of dreamlike. A chauffeur-driven car had arrived for them about an hour after Sherlock confirmed that he was indeed interested in acquiring the puppy, and Anthea had sent along an agent to serve as cat-sitter for Hobbes as well, Molly having stated that she wouldn't leave the kitten for so many hours when he'd only just arrived. Sherlock and Molly had had nothing to do but climb in, buckle up, relax, and enjoy the view.

The journey was a long one, but reason had dictated a temporary cessation of carnal delights in any case. Sherlock had lost track of the number of times they'd made love in the short time they'd been together in the aftermath of Sherrinford and that horrid, blessed phone call, and he had been amazed to find his desire only increased with each encounter. Molly had _not_ been amazed by this, though she'd been extremely pleased and assured him that she felt the same. She also reluctantly admitted to feeling a bit "shagged out", physically speaking, which admission had filled Sherlock with such a mixture of manly pride and tender sympathy that he should have rolled his eyes in disgust at having become such a cliché. But for once he decided he didn't give a toss about analysing the particulars of a situation, and was only deeply and sincerely thankful.

Watching the countryside slip by, they'd conversed in a desultory fashion, and occasionally gave into weariness, in spite of the beauty of the landscape. Molly had napped curled against him, her head pillowed against his shoulder, and it was all he could do not to bend and kiss the top of her head every few minutes. Eventually, he fell asleep, too, and only roused when they'd arrived at a rather idyllic farm not far from the borders of Exmoor National Park.

They'd managed to rouse themselves and face Anthea's cousin, a Mrs. Eugenia Trent, with adequate decorum, though if Mrs. Trent had scratched the surface their facade would have crumbled pretty readily. In fact, the woman's eyes were lit with amusement from her first sight of them, though whether said amusement was the result of unseemly tells on their part or was just her natural expression remained unclear. She was kindness itself, however, and introduced them to the puppy straight away. It was love at first sight (well, second sight, the photo Anthea had sent that morning had pretty much sold Sherlock). After giving a tiny bay at the sight of the strangers he'd trotted over to them behind his parents, two really beautiful prize-winning Bassets named Terry and June.

Mrs. Trent said, "He was the only boy in the litter, and little girls seemed the order of the day among the buyers that've come by. He's ten weeks, now, and good as gold - I've even started housetraining him a bit. He's been waiting for you, Mr. Holmes, you see?"

The latter statement was a comment on the fact that Sherlock had crouched down and the three dogs had come right over, the pup actually trying to jump up and put tiny, slightly muddy paws on Sherlock's expensively trousered knee. Sherlock chuckled, and carefully picked the puppy up, and then could not help laughing outright as he received a series of enthusiastic puppy kisses as he stood up again, the little dog in his arms. "Yes, yes, you are a fine fellow!" he told the pup, and to Mrs. Trent it was, "I believe you're right. We'll take him!."

The transaction confirmed, Mrs. Trent had invited them in for _just a bite_ _before that long drive back to London_. The "bite" turned out to be hot tea, sandwiches on homemade bread, and some of the best biscuits Sherlock had ever eaten, casting even Mrs. Hudson's into the shade.

The puppy had slept most of the way home. Sherlock and Molly had not. They'd argued, instead, about what to name him.

"What's wrong with Calvin?" Molly asked. "Calvin and Hobbes! They go together! And he _looks_ like a Cal."

But Sherlock replied, "I hate the name Calvin, the comic strip's character was named for _John_ Calvin and he was a wretched man with his _predestination_ and _theocracy_. And anyway, I looked it up and it means _little bald one_. I was thinking more along the lines of Hercule."

"From Agatha Christie?" Molly considered, but then shook her head. "We could call him Herc for short, but it lacks the crisp consonant at the beginning that will draw his attention when you shout for him. What about Excaliber, with Cal for short? Or Calico - he is white, black, and tan. Or perhaps Caliban?"

"Those are ridiculous, and Caliban was a monster! He would have raped Miranda, given half a chance, and _peopled else this isle with Calibans_."

"That's awful!"

"That's _Shakespeare!_ "

They continued the debate, off and on, clear back to London and Molly's doorstep. Then, what with the excitement of introducing the puppy to Hobbes (the kitten established dominance in short order, puffing up and hissing fiercely so that little Hercule/Calico/Excaliber ran to Sherlock, yelping), showing the pup his new home, making everyone supper, and getting ready for bed, Sherlock and Molly quite forgot the argument. The pup was _Darling_ or _Sweetheart_ all evening, and when he was finally asleep in the luxurious crate Anthea had provided, Sherlock took Molly to bed again and they were once more lost to the world.

Now, however, in the clear light of a new day, Sherlock felt that the matter of the puppy's name needed to be resolved. _Darling_ or _Sweetheart_ would never do long term for a hound destined to be the bane of the criminal class and boon companion to the World's Only Consulting Detective.

"I still think Cal is a good nickname," Molly said.

"Hercule is better," Sherlock insisted. "More elegant. And French."

"Very well," said Molly. "Trying calling him. Go on!"

Sherlock frowned. "You mean summon him by name? Very well." He cleared his throat a bit, then called out, " _Hercule!_ "

There was no response. The pup continued snuffling about, nose to the ground, apparently finding some fascinating scents in Molly's neat little garden.

Sherlock tried again, a little louder. " _Here, Herc!_ "

There was still no response.

Then Molly sang out, " _Cal! Here, Cal!_ " And when the pup jerked his head up and began to run toward them, she burst out laughing, and exclaimed, "Good boy! What a good doggie!"

"You must have been practicing with him!" Sherlock accused.

"Have not!" she asserted, smug. "When would I have had time?"

"Well, your voice is higher!" But further sulking was cut short as the pup came running to _him_ , rather than Molly, and indicated a desire to be picked up and cuddled. Sherlock complied with a smile, and his discontent vanished entirely under a renewed onslaught of puppy kisses.

Molly chuckled. "He knows who his new master is."

"Certainly he does," Sherlock agreed, laughing, until he got the pup to settle a bit, though the little dog still gazed up at him adoringly, panting happily. Sherlock was equally smitten, and stroked him, amazed at how soft he was. The thought occurred that this was the first dog he'd ever owned - but he shoved that dark cloud away. Plenty of time to deal with the past without spoiling the delightful present. Sherlock said to the puppy in a playfully scolding tone, "So, you think you're a _Cal_ , do you?" But hearing even that slight disapprobation in the voice of his master, the pup immediately laid his ears back, looking uncertain. Sherlock hastily backtracked. "No, no! Everything's fine! But you _are_ a smart one, aren't you?"

And then Molly said, "What about Calbraith?"

"Calbraith?" Sherlock repeated (idiotically), frowning at her again.

"Means _British Warrior_." She cocked her head. "You're not the only one who can google the meaning of names."

"Hmm." Sherlock actually rather liked the sound of that, though it would be some time before the moniker would really fit. "It's not bad," he conceded.

Molly smiled and, leaning close, she reached over and joined in petting the pup. She said to Sherlock, in a deceptively casual way, "It's up to you, of course. If you really _like_ Herc…"

But Sherlock, in the first throes of romance and domestic bliss, thanks to the woman beside him, knew when it was time to give in gracefully. "Apparently this onedoes not, however," he said, pouting only a very little, for form's sake. "Do you, Calbraith?" he asked the pup, stroking the long ears.

And Molly giggled as Cal took his cue and licked Sherlock's hand.

 **o-o-o**

 _ **~ Day Six...**_

"Sherlock, what's this?"

Cal and Hobbes, now fast friends, had breakfasted and were curled up together in Cal's crate, and Sherlock had gone back to bed, too, commandeering all the pillows to ensure his comfort as he went through email on his phone, his cup of tea and a plate of gingernuts on the nightstand beside him. However, he made an effort to look up at his beloved, since she was industriously preparing some of their clothing for delivery to the dry cleaners.

Apparently including the suit he'd worn to Sherringford.

And of course, being Molly, she had been checking the pockets.

He stared at the small metal plaque she was now holding up. The one that said, _I Love You_.

The sight of it took him right back to the moment when he'd bent to snatch it up from among the debris of the coffin he'd destroyed with his bare hands, John and Mycroft still standing like statues over by the open door as he'd concluded the process of giving himself over to pain and grief and rage. Exhausted, he nevertheless had been determined that _that plaque_ with _those words_ would not be left in _that place_ , exposed to further mockery.

"Sherlock?"

He realized he'd been "buffering" as John called it, and, blinking, he raised his eyes to Molly's face. She was looking worried and puzzled. A little wary. He cleared his throat a bit and then said, with a semblance of calm, "Give it to me, will you, please?"

She came over immediately and handed it to him, but she also asked him, rather gently, "Is that from the coffin?"

"Yes," he replied. The plaque was so small and cool to the touch, which seemed very odd considering…

But now Molly was sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. "It's alright, you know."

He looked up at her.

"I mean…everything's going to be fine." She bent and tenderly kissed his lips.

He set the plaque down on the nightstand beside his cup of tea, and then his hands went to her: warm and vital, slender and _alive_. "Come back to bed." He needed her again, needed her close. Closer than close.

Delight, worry, sympathy… he could read her like a book. "Yes. Alright," she said, softly. "But you have to share the pillows."

And he was able to smile at that. "I will always share the pillows," he replied, and as he drew her against him he wondered again at the helpless, visceral joy and agony of love.

 **o-o-o**

 _ **~ A Month Later...**_

"Holmes!"

Sherlock, with Molly on his arm, had been following the restaurant's hostess back to their table when the vaguely familiar voice sounded and a big, beefy man pushed back his chair and stood up, looking between Sherlock and Molly in surprise.

"And Molly Hooper! Well, I'll be damned!"

 _Bloody hell!_ Sherlock thought, his eyes widening ever so slightly as a jolt of recognition shot through him, though he maintained his mask of insouciance in all other respects.

It was Glen Harrison, former rugby-playing idiot from Molly's mid-level organic chemistry class in her first year at uni, the class in which Sherlock, at the tail-end of his graduate studies, had reluctantly served as a teacher's assistant.

"Glen!" Molly smiled a bit uncertainly, glancing between her current fiancé and her former classmate _cum_ perpetrator of bodily assault with a view to attempted rape. Nonetheless, she held out her hand to the bastard, since she had received his apology the Monday after the incident, which apology, true to form, she had accepted. She was far too soft a touch, and always had been. Thankfully for Sherlock's youthful peace of mind, he'd observed that Molly had enough sense to steer clear of the tosser outside the classroom and, thus reassured, he'd been able to take leave of that bastion of higher learning and pretty much delete Glen from his Mind Palace without further ado.

Though not entirely.

One of his favorite memories of university was the rescue of Molly Hooper, featuring his young dragon-slaying self. He'd utilized some simple moves he'd picked up from associates of Mycroft, and Glen the Great Gawk had dropped like a stone. Molly, who'd been smitten with Sherlock before the incident, was quite awestruck, and the subsequent sojourn along the river as he escorted her back to her room had been very… _pleasant._

So no, he had not forgotten Glen. Not quite.

Now Glen was grinning, and said, "Lord, fancy meeting you two here - the wife and I - this is my wife, Tiffany, by the way-"

"How do you do?" Molly murmured, and Sherlock inclined his head very slightly at Tiffany (upper middle-class antecedents, left uni to pursue modeling, whirlwind romance, engagement, marriage, two children, charitable work, garden club, PTA).

"-we came up to town on business and actually saw the announcement of your engagement in the Times!"

"Yeees," said Sherlock, angry at his parents all over again, though they'd at least had the sense not to mention the wedding venue.

But Glen gleefully nattered on. "And then, of course, it all made sense. Always wondered if consulting detective Holmes was some relation to that Holmes at uni, and there it was, in black and white: _William Sherlock Scott Holmes!_ Good job you kept to William at school - easy enough to take the piss without something like _Sherlock_ providing ammunition."

Sherlock merely glared at the collosal berk.

And Glen, contrary to expectation, actually took the hint. "Yeah, well, you have to admit it's an unusual name, and you know how kids are. But anyway, congratulations, you two! God, it's amazing to see you both again after all these years."

"Indeed," said Sherlock.

"It _is_ ," said Molly, with rather a sharp look in Sherlock's direction.

He tried to subdue the flutter of dread in his bosom.

Molly turned back to Glen and his wife. "I do hope you have a wonderful time in London. Where do you live now?"

"Just outside Brighton," said Glen. "Look us up next time you're down there, eh?"

"That would be lovely," Molly replied.

 _When hell freezes over_ , was Sherlock's reply, but aloud he only said, "Yes, well, must be off, our table's waiting."

"Oh, of course," said Glen. "Cheers!"

Sherlock and Molly resumed the journey to their (thankfully secluded) table at the back of the restaurant, Sherlock trying not to panic. The hostess saw them seated and handed them each a menu, and took their order for drinks.

"I'll have the Macallan, and make it a double," said Sherlock.

"Just a glass of the Pinot Grigio." Molly smiled until the hostess took herself off. Then she turned, unsmiling, to glare at Sherlock.

Feeling there was nothing for it, he said, "Soooo… not an extra strong G and T?"

An angry flush suffused her cheeks. "You _liar!_ "

Sherlock sighed, well aware he deserved every bit of her anger and more.

Molly went on. "That first time we met at Barts: you _did_ remember me from university!"

"Yes," he said, simply.

"Then why… _no!_ Don't tell me. You wanted my professional expertise without involving yourself in anything involving _sentiment_."

"Yes."

"And all these years… why, I thought I must be the most forgettable girl alive! That what had been so important to me - that night… the… the _event_ … _YOU_ … had meant so little to you that you'd completely dismissed the whole thing!"

"Yes."'

"You _bastard!_ "

He sighed again. "Yes."

The hostess returned at this point, and Molly composed herself as best she could as their drinks were set on the table. Sherlock picked up his glass of Macallan and tossed back about half of it.

As soon as the hostess took herself off again, Molly hissed, "Is that all you have to say for yourself? Just _Yes_ , _Yes_ , _Yes_?"

Sherlock winced. "Would _I'm sorry_ help?"

She drew herself up. "I don't believe you're sorry at all! I think you'd do it again in a minute!"

"Yes, I probably would," he admitted. "Under the same circumstances. I mean… before… everything. I never meant to hurt you... but I always do, don't I? And after a while I… I really did forgot about it. More or less."

She looked slightly less angry. However, she said, fuming, "You should be…oh! I don't know _what_ you deserve!"

"To be married?" he suggested, hopefully. "So you can hold it over me for the rest of my days?"

And she gave a chuff of laughter. "Well, there is that." She sat back, shaking her head. "What am I going to do with you? You're impossible."

He gave a derisive sniff. "Oh, Molly, you've known that for years, and yet here we are. You'd better just marry me. That'll give you all the time in the world to decide what to do with me. Let your imagination run wild. I trust you."

As planned, she could not suppress a smile, but there was a glint in her eye as she retorted, "You may just regret those words, Sherlock Holmes."

But he dared to smile, now, too. "Never in life, Molly Hooper," he said, and knew it for God's own truth. "I leave my fate entirely in your hands."

~.~


	3. Gravitas

_**~ Gravitas ~**_

 _For Tuesday, March 6th, Theme:_ _Engagement / Wedding_

* * *

When they arrived at the church, parked the car, and got out into the bright sunshine, Greg couldn't help muttering to his companions, "God, it's bloody _freezing!_ "

Sally immediately gave him one of her glares, and Phillip Anderson clucked disapproval, though he also said, "January _is_ an odd month for a wedding."

"Yeah, still wondering why they were suddenly in such a rush," Sally agreed.

"Maybe it's the usual reason," Anderson said, waggling his brows a bit.

But Sally gave a derisive laugh. "Them? Nahhh. Hooper's too smart for that."

Greg's mouth twisted against a smile, but he kept his own council. The satisfaction of watching the live-action post-Sherrinford sitcom, _Idiots in Love_ , had been a private delight for months and he wasn't spoiling it by sharing it with his two less-than-discrete colleagues. They'd figure it out soon enough, anyway.

The three of them joined the other guests that were carefully making their way through the snowy carpark to the doors of the beautiful old grey stone building. Greg remembered how surprised he'd been when he'd received the invitation, just three weeks ago. He'd asked Sherlock about it a couple of days later, after concluding the Hawthorne Case.

"Got your invite yesterday, by the way, and of course I'll be there, wouldn't miss it. St. Mary's, eh? To please the parents?"

Sherlock gave a little shrug. "And others. Lends it more gravitas."

Greg had nodded, carefully not showing his surprise at this uncharacteristic consideration. Or it would've been, a year or two ago. He merely agreed, "It does that. Wouldn't have thought you could arrange it so quick, what with banns and all."

"We had to forego banns, they would had to have been read at St. Mary's _and_ in the parishes where the two of us reside and I wasn't having that. Bad enough the engagement was announced in the papers. Fortunately, we qualified for a Common License, since my parents have lived near St. Mary's for decades. They attend occasionally, and it seems it was enough."

"Ah. But why the rush? Thought you'd planned it for May?"

Sherlock looked blank for a moment, and when he did speak there was a spot of color on each of those prominent cheekbones. "Got a good deal on the wedding trip. Italy and Greece. Molly wants to get out of this cold for a bit."

"I see." Greg nodded sagely, not believing him for a minute. "It _is_ the coldest winter we've had in some time. Snow even in London!"

"Indeed."

While Sherlock was flagging down a cab, Greg stuck his hands in his pockets, silently working up the courage to mention the other wedding-related topic that had been on his mind. When one of the black cabs quickly pulled over to the curb, Greg felt he'd better take the plunge.

"Look, Sherlock, about that _plus one_ …"

Sherlock turned his cool gaze on Greg. "Yes?" And then he rolled his eyes a bit. "Don't tell me: you want to bring Donovan."

Of course the git could read him like a book. "She'd really like to be there," Greg said, a pleading note in his voice. "But I'd understand if you're dead set against it. I haven't said anything to her yet."

Sherlock turned to the cab and held up one finger to indicate _Just a minute!_ to the driver, who nodded. Then he faced Greg, again. "Bring her, if you like. Anderson, too."

"Really?" Greg said, surprised and happy.

"Yes." Sherlock got a sort of distant look on his face. "They… the situation with Moriarty was… _wasn't_ their fault. I mean… he played upon their dislike of me, but he wasn't the only one complicite in engineering the situation."

"No, he wasn't, was he?" Greg agreed, rather wryly.

Sherlock's "death" had resulted in near disaster for a lot of people, including Greg himself. Greg knew the whole thing had ultimately been for the greater good, but it had been a difficult time for everyone involved - and still was, in certain ways.

Trust issues.

Sherlock, the central figure in the drama, Greg could readily forgive - the lad had been through hell and back, far more than any of them. But Mycroft Holmes… that was another story.

Fortunately the Machiavellian bastard knew how to use his powers for good as well as evil. Greg had been reinstated to his previous rank on the force in fairly short order, in line for promotion as though nothing untoward had ever occurred. Sally had come off fairly unscathed, considering. And now even Anderson was back, after a lengthy leave of absence.

And then there was the bride. Molly Hooper knew how to keep a secret, he'd give her that. And Mycroft must have really pulled some strings in that quarter when Sherlock was finally revealed to be very much alive.

Made life interesting, being associated with the Holmes brothers. And soon there'd be a new generation to add to the fun.

There was no sign of it, though, when half an hour later the music of the little pipe organ swelled and the bride appeared at the church door on the arm of her rather bemused escort, a favorite uncle, probably, as her dad had passed away years ago. Molly might be a little thing, but there was a magnificence about her on this day of days. She was dressed all in velvet and lace, a high-necked, long-sleeved affair that made her look slim as a blade. But maybe there _was_ some hint of what the coming months would bring. She was smiling, a-glow with good health and happiness, and she only had eyes for Sherlock.

And Sherlock, pale (as usual) but holding up well, couldn't take his eyes off of her. John was best man, of course, and standing beside him, a bit of a grin trying to break through as he watched his friend's expression. Both of them looked very sharp in their morning suits, but as Molly reached them, and took Sherlock's hand, everyone else was cast into the shade.

There was a _look_ that passed between the two, then, a look that Greg had once upon a time never thought he'd live to see…

Beside him, Sally made an odd little sound.

Greg glanced at her. She was biting her lower lip a bit, her eyes glittering, though her expression was stony as ever.

And Anderson, on her other side, looked so pleased with himself you would've thought he'd orchestrated the whole affair for real, instead of just in his imagination.

Sherlock and Molly turned, still hand in hand, to face the parson.

Greg pulled out the little packet of tissues he always kept in an inner pocket of his coat and handed them to Sally. She gave a start of surprise and threw another glare at him, but as one tear chose that moment to slip down her cheek, the glare vanished in a grimace of consternation. She muttered "Thanks," and took the packet.

And was glad of it, too, when the parson started in, treading the line between solemnity and cheer with the ease of long practice to bring alive the beautiful words...

 _Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of th_ _is_ _congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…_

A minute or two in, Greg gave Sally a little nudge with his elbow. "Gimme one of those, will you?" he whispered.

And Anderson silently held out his hand, too.

Sally glanced between them, shook her head and handed out the tissues without further comment.

It was a red letter day and no mistake.

~.~


	4. Tale as Old as Time

_**~ Tale as Old as Time ~**_

 _For Wednesday, March 7th, Theme: Early Marriage / Parent!lock (little kids)_

* * *

 _Hope of the future… a more intense experience of the present… a deeper realization of life itself…_

A son.

He had a _son_.

Sherlock looked down, into the face of _his son_ , tightly swaddled and asleep in his father's hands. Six pounds and three ounces of what was the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen - save for the baby's mother, now dozing beside them, her lips still touched with that smile.

When she'd taken her baby in her arms that first time, she had exclaimed, "Oh! Sherlock, he looks just like you!" with such laughter and happiness in her tired eyes that the trials of the previous hours had faded quite away in their light.

Now, with everyone at peace (at least for the moment - Rosie Watson had taught them many things, darling that she was), Sherlock studied this new little being closely. Molly was probably correct. The delicate lips were his, certainly, and the eyes seemed to be similar in form to those of the baby in all those pictures his mother had insisted on showing off when they'd taken a mini-break in Suffolk a few weeks ago (strange how much easier it was to tolerate being returned to child status when Molly was by his side). The true color of his son's eyes wouldn't be known for some months, of course, but there was already a fine fuzz of dark hair on the soft pate, and the boy was long-limbed for all he was so very small - the midwife had gleefully remarked upon it almost immediately.

The birth had actually gone very well, in keeping with Molly's pregnancy in general. For all her minor eccentricities, Molly knew how to take care of herself _and_ the people around her, and for the last year this had been brought home to him in the most intimate and resounding ways. Now, sitting beside her, he could only wonder at his good fortune in having finally awakened and claimed what had been there all along.

She was magnificent. A truly exceptional human being. And she was _his_.

As was this scrap of humanity in his hands.

Sherlock was aware that his emotional state was entirely compromised by this point, but couldn't bring himself to care. To the music of Molly's soft breathing, he contemplated the sight of his large hand cradling his son's head: so small and round and perfect, and so full of potential.

Joy… heartbreak… perhaps greatness.

The weight and beauty of the moment seared him, and his eyes stung. His parents had probably looked down upon their tiny Sherlock in much the same way. And one day, if fortune, or luck, or God's blessing held true, this newest Holmes would be privileged to repeat the cycle.

There was a sudden, small noise at the door, and Sherlock looked up to see his mother's face peeking in, with his father hovering behind her.

Sherlock couldn't help smiling, and they interpreted the unspoken invitation correctly and entered.

His mother was, ludicrously, almost on tip-toe as she crossed the room, and his father's first words were uttered in a stage whisper: "Everyone's fine? Have you named him?"

"William Hamish Vernet," Sherlock said, softly. "But we're calling him Will."

Sherlock's father puffed up like a pigeon with delight, and his mother breathed, "Ahhh! Perfect! Let me hold him," and, as she took the baby from Sherlock, murmured, " _My little Will!_ "

" _Our_ little Will," came Molly's voice beside him.

He turned to her, and there was such love in the eyes that were upon him that he was rendered speechless and could only take the hand she was holding out to him, bend, and place a kiss - and possibly a tear or two - upon it.

Life, or something similar, like some beautiful, old tale.

And it was his.

~.~


	5. The Facts of Life

_**~ The Facts of Life ~**_

 _For Thursday, March 8th, Theme: Domestic Sherlolly / Parent!lock (teenagers)_

* * *

" _Jon! What are you doing?_ "

Jon jumped at the hissed warning and then froze, save for his head which turned to his older brother's scowling countenance. Will was out of his bedroom and striding toward him on silent feet (Will was good at that stealth thing, even Dad said so), and when he came even with Jon he gave a jerk of his head, a demand to come away from his parents' bedroom door and follow.

Jon scowled and hissed right back. "I want to see Dad! He's been away two months and I barely got to talk to him at all last night, he got in so late!"

Will, who had swept past and headed straight for the stairs, now stopped at the first step and held a finger to his lips, then waved Jon over with exaggerated vehemence.

Jon silently threw up his hands in disgust, but obeyed the summons. "What?" he demanded, still in a loud whisper, as he reached the insufferable git. Just because Will was three years his senior…

Will looked slightly uncomfortable, glancing between Jon and their parents' door. Finally he said, "Leave them alone. They… Rosie said… " Will's voice trailed off, and Jon saw that his brother was actually blushing.

"What's wrong with you?" Jon asked, now a trifle concerned. "What did she say?"

Rosie Watson was sixteen, practically a grown-up, and Jon knew she and Will were close mates, had been all their lives, basically. She was older than Will by a little more than two years, but it hadn't seemed to matter for a long time now, Will being what he was (a bloody old man, sometimes) and Rosie being Rosie. Mum was always saying Rosie reminded her of Mary Watson, the wife and mother who had sacrificed her life for Dad when Rosie was a baby. They all knew the story - well, Will and Jon did. Daisy, at seven, was a bit young for it yet, but she'd hear it soon enough.

Rosie had been there last night, along with Uncle John, when Dad had come in the door, weary but smiling, and later Jon had seen Rosie talking pretty seriously to Will in the kitchen. Jon had interrupted them, seemingly, for they'd looked up, words cut off, and then Will had said to Rosie, "Right. I'll take care of it," and had given her an odd laugh. She had nodded, looking pleased.

"Your dad wants you," Jon had said to her, rather coldly.

"Thanks, Jon. Time to go, I guess," Rosie said, and as she passed Jon she said, "Be good and listen to your brother, OK?"

"I'm _always_ good," Jon had growled. Which was patently untrue, of course, as Rosie knew very well, but had nevertheless seemed the thing to say at the time.

"Tell you later," Will had said to Jon as Rosie had gone out the door. "C'mon, let's see them off." And he'd followed Rosie back into the living room.

But Will hadn't said anything to Jon later. Mum had insisted on putting Jon and Daisy to bed while Will had been allowed to stay up talking to Dad a bit more. One more good reason to look daggers at his older brother now, Jon thought, and did so.

Will gave a roll of his eyes (and didn't he just look the spit of Dad when he did that?) and said, "There's nothing wrong, we just need to give Mum and Dad a bit of privacy. He's been gone two months, and you know how worried she's been about him. They need some time to… to get to know each other again."

"What?!" Jon exclaimed. "Don't be stupid! They've known each other forever!"

"Not that kind of _know_. _Know_ in the biblical sense." Will ground his teeth a bit, growing redder, and he snapped (though still in that hiss), "Do you get it? Or do I have to bloody explain the facts of life to you in detail?"

Jon stared… and then couldn't help being inwardly (and probably outwardly) shocked at the thought of his parents… his _parents_ … _!_

And when Will laughed, Jon knew it wasn't in mockery. "Yeah, I know," Will said. "But I asked Dad about it last night - in a sort of roundabout way, not outright. _God!_ " Will gave a sort of shudder before going on. "Anyway, he said he _would_ take it kindly if we could… uh… give them some time to themselves this morning. He promised they'd be up by ten or so."

Jon pulled himself together. He knew the facts of life perfectly well, of course. But… _Mum?_ And _Dad?_ He winced, shuddered a bit himself, and muttered, "Come on, let's go get some cereal, then, and watch a DVD or something."

"Yeah," Will agreed, sounding relieved.

They went quickly down and were almost at the foot of the stairs when an electrifying sound came to their ears from above.

" _Mummy! Daddy! The door's stuck! I want to come in!"_

The shrill voice was followed by the pounding of little fists on a door that had probably been locked against sudden intruders.

" _Daisy!_ " both brothers exclaimed, simultaneously naming the sudden intruder in question as they exchanged a brief look of horror. Then, squeaking profanities that would have mortified their mother and drawn a very stern lecture from Dad (if not worse), they raced back up the stairs.

~.~


	6. Memento Mori

_**~ Memento Mori ~**_

 _For Friday, March 9th, Theme: Late Marriage / Grandchildren_

* * *

"Don't be long! They'll be here soon!" Molly called after him from the kitchen door.

He lifted a hand in a casual wave of acknowledgement, but continued to make his way across the wide lawn toward the line of trees, behind which lay the south field and, at the far end of that, his beehives.

It was still early, plenty of time to check the hives for damage from the short but violent storm that had swept through the previous night. Bees were tough little creatures, but even the latest technology had not eliminated their vulnerability to the buffets of early spring in the English countryside.

That vulnerability had been at the back of his mind hours ago, even as he and Molly had lain snug in their bed, enjoying the sound of wind and rain outside and their last evening of real privacy for the next month.

"Don't, Sherlock," she'd whispered at one point. "Your bees will be fine. You'll see." And she had kissed him, very tenderly.

The golden light and shadows of the dying fire had blurred to insignificance the sins age had inevitably perpetrated upon their persons. They'd moved on, exploring the familiar paths of their hard-won Eden. Familiar, yet stirring, even now.

The children would be quite shocked.

His chuckle made a puff of fog in the cold morning air.

She was still beautiful, his Molly. His little wife. Body and, most especially, soul. Almost a saint, really, to have put up with him all these years. Oddly enough, she seemed still to think the world of him. He would be inclined to call her a fool if he did not know for a fact that she was no such thing.

She had always been able to see him, even when he'd been blind himself.

Saved his life too many times to think about.

No use in rehashing the past, however. Just acknowledge that it was there, a series of inalterable facts, as was the love that brought balance to the equation. That was the thing to keep in mind as one moved onward and upward.

He laughed again. How he had changed over the years.

And yet, not really. He had, perhaps, simply reverted to what had been originally intended for him, before everything had gone pear-shaped. He had been driven from the straight path to walk some very dark ways indeed.

 _The roads we walk have demons beneath…_

But Mycroft had said that thirty-five years ago.

A long time.

Sherlock had come out on the other side by steps that ran the full gamut of pain and joy, and now, in this place, he sometimes felt he was once ag the boy he had been all those years ago, when he and Victor had played at pirates in these very fields and grief had seemed the stuff of some dark fairy tale.

He stopped for a moment to turn and look back at the house.

The renovation of Musgrave Hall was an on-going project and would be for many years to come. Mummy and Dad had, understandably, had no desire to return after the fire and its aftermath, no desire to rebuild the backdrop of the tragedy into which their lives had devolved. Far better to hole up in the cottage in Suffolk and keep to simpler ways. But Musgrave was part of the National Trust, so it lay mouldering for years, abandoned and unloved, until the inhabitants of the Suffolk cottage had followed one another to their heavenly reward (Molly seemed convinced of that, at least, and it would be nonsensical to argue the point) and Sherlock had taken up the challenge, since Mycroft had no interest in doing so.

His brother had become quite the hedonist after he and Alicia Smallwood had made a match of it. Not that the tendency hadn't always been there, a settled part of his personality (hence the love of cake, Sherlock thought with a smirk). But these last ten years, basking in the south of France? It was fortunate that the aged but still spry Alicia retained her sharp wits as well as luck, or the tables at Monte Carlo would have seen the pair beggared. As it was, they still enjoyed considerable wealth and were fit enough to travel - including their impending visit. _They_ wouldn't arrive until tomorrow, thankfully, and would leave the morning after the party, two days hence.

Mycroft had given Sherlock monetary assistance in the restoration of their childhood home. But all the decisions and work had been left to baby brother.

Not that Sherlock had minded.

It had been a wrench to sell Molly's place in London, where their children had spent their early years, but it had seemed absurd to keep two valuable London properties when the money could be used to such good purpose elsewhere, and Mrs. Hudson had left 221B Baker St. to Sherlock outright in her will. He hadn't been surprised. It might be said that he was closer to Martha Hudson than he had been to his parents, and she had had no children of her own. He'd been using the central London flat as his office and private lab since the conclusion of that first traumatic visit to Sherrinford, and when Martha had suffered a stroke not long after Daisy was born, Sherlock had seen to it that his landlady received the best of care for the remainder of her time with them. Thanks to John Watson's connections, the arrangements had been easy enough, and Sherlock had taken great pleasure in providing her with a tray of tea and biscuits each morning, as she had so often done for him.

Molly's flat, large and modern and relatively secluded, had always been their residence of choice. But when Dad and Mummy had passed away within a year of each other, and Jon had gone off to join his brother at Eton College, it seemed to be time to make a change. Greg had retired from NSY a few years before and his successors seemed a dull set, less tolerant of Sherlock's… methods. There had been no lack of other cases, of course, some of them very lucrative indeed, and there had been the occasional request for his services from the British government. But when all was said and done, it had seemed the time was ripe to move on.

He had never regretted it.

The basic structure had come first, and the roof and windows. Those things were costly, and they'd spared no expense on these vital components. As a result, though the ground floor rooms had been relatively easy to restore, they had taken much longer to complete. Molly's state-of-the art kitchen - he could still taste the champagne with which they'd toasted the culmination of that project - the living room, then the dining room, and finally the library: all renovated in a comfortable, traditional style. And along the way there had been several bedrooms and a rather luxurious loo, all technically part of a servants wing (they did have one live-in maid-of-all-work (a member of his homeless network who had begged for the chance and had subsequently bloomed in the fresh air of the country - _and_ with her new sense of belonging somewhere, too, Sherlock supposed) but any other domestic help was hired by the day, from the local populace, which seemed surprisingly anxious to oblige the Holmes family in this way).

After that, they'd tackled the bedrooms on the first floor. Sherlock doubted if Mummy and Dad would have recognized any of them. Daisy, Jon, and even Will, who by then was at Oxford, had been allowed to design their own bedroom decor, and as for the master suite… well, there had been a number of lively debates about those rooms. Molly had been surprisingly stubborn about it, considering he'd put up with her predilection for frills for literally _years_ after he'd moved into her London flat and made it his home. Made it his home and _taken her to wife_ , with all that those words entailed. He chuckled, remembering her reaction when he'd told her as much. Furious didn't even come close. It had taken great skill and patience to get round her that time, and much longer to come to any sort of compromise. Yet they had, in the end, and if the make-up sex had been fabulous, their first night in their newly completed master suite had been one for the ages.

How he loved that woman, his darling Molly, when she kept him on his toes - which was all the time. Speaking of which…

The hives were now in sight, and he stepped up his pace. Will and Rosie were due to arrive around ten with their two young rascals, Billy (William Jonathan Scott Holmes) and Mary Millicent (merely "M" for short, which seemed entirely appropriate), and Jon and Caroline would be coming along with two-year-old Maggie (another Margaret Elizabeth) shortly thereafter.

Then Daisy tomorrow, flitting in just before the party, and then out again, early the next morning: the life of a successful actress precluded leisurely sojourns at the parental estate.

Greg and Dani, the very beautiful, very French Holmes cousin that Greg had fallen head-over-heels for at Sherlock and Molly's wedding, had flown in from Paris last night and were probably picking up old threads in London before heading out to Musgrave in time for dinner this evening.

And John would be here in the morning, fresh from a stint as a guest lecturer at the University of Edinburgh. It seemed a bit sad that Sherlock's best friend had never remarried. Mary Watson had been a hard act to follow, however, and it wasn't as though John had ever subsequently lacked for female companionship. He gave the impression of being _safe_ , Molly had once noted, when Sherlock had wondered at the phenomenon - which just proved what idiots people were, as even John himself would admit.

Love and life being celebrated in this odd locale… this _memento mori_. But what could be more fitting for Margaret Elizabeth Hooper Holmes' seventieth birthday?

He looked over the hives carefully. There had been minimal damage, and the bees were safe inside - the weather had not warmed enough for them to emerge as yet. Tough little creatures, but they were jealous of their comforts, too. He was like that himself and had every sympathy toward them.

He replaced the hive covers that served to keep out the worst of the weather, and then he headed back across the field toward home, his mind at ease, at one with his surroundings.

There were still shadows in all this sunshine, of course.

Eurus had not been well for the last few months, though they still kept their weekly appointment to play together. She had been fairly eager to help him compose a duet that they could present to Molly via Skype during the party, too, which he considered an encouraging sign.

But none of them was getting any younger. Which really seemed most unfair.

He was chuckling at his thought when he made his way through the trees and came on a sight that lifted his heart toward the heavens again: his oldest grandchildren, Billy and M, pelting across the lawn toward him, and their parents, his son and his beloved goddaughter and daughter-in-law, following behind at a more sedate pace, holding hands and laughing.

And in the distance, there was his Molly, smiling and wiping her hands on a towel as she stood on the porch by the kitchen door.

"Grandpa! Grandpa!" came screeching down the wind, and he grinned as he opened his arms to them, and then allowed himself to be bowled over, landing on his back in the wet grass, all of them laughing fit to burst.

"Dad! Are you alright?" Will said, only half laughing, running up, with Rosie right behind him, looking concerned.

"Of course he's alright!" M threw at her parents, over her shoulder, before resuming the hug that was threatening to choke the life out of her grandfather.

Her grandfather pretended as much, tongue lolling, eyes rolling, and she finally sat up, scolding, "Grandpa, stop that!" though Billy just laughed uproariously.

Sherlock managed to sit up then, and put an arm around each of them, pulling them close. "I'm fine," he said, his heart as full as it had ever been in his life. He looked up at Will and Rosie and gave them a crooked grin. "Never better, actually. You have my word on it."

~.~


	7. Idiots in Love

_**~ Idiots in Love ~**_

 _For Saturday, March 10th, Theme: Free Choice_

* * *

 **Domestic Bliss**

For all his curiosity - and sympathy, too, of course - Greg had refrained from contacting Sherlock for a good six days after the Sherrinford/Musgrave affair, but on the seventh he absolutely needed Sherlock's sharp wits for a tricky case, so he pulled out his mobile and, after only a moment's hesitation, texted him.

No reply.

Which was unusual. Even if Sherlock wasn't in the mood to come out to a crime scene, he was almost always willing to provide input via text message or even Skype, if the situation warranted it. And as for answering, Greg sometimes thought that mobile was bloody attached to his hand, he was that quick.

Greg tried texting a couple more times, with the same result, and then he found he was really starting to get worried.

So he sent one off to Sherlock's brother. There'd probably been quite the blow-up with the Holmes mum and dad, what with them not having known their daughter was still alive. Maybe the boys were still in the midst of smoothing things down in that quarter.

But Mycroft replied almost immediately.

 **Sherlock is fine, as far as I know. He is with Dr. Hooper. - M**

Greg nodded (as though Mycroft could see him - ha!) and texted back his thanks.

He'd known, of course, that Sherlock was staying with Molly, since 221B Baker St. was a bit too blown up for habitation, and he'd heard it from John, too, when he'd run across him walking little Rosie in Regent's Park.

"Yeah, Molly's taken him in," John had said, with a crooked smile, which Greg had taken to be relief that he didn't have to put up with a possibly unstable houseguest after… well, everything. John had been through a lot in the last six months. Or six _years_ , more like.

"They're okay, then?" Greg had smiled, remembering how worried Molly had been after that phone call, and then Sherlock's reaction to hearing that she'd begged to be included when Greg had been summoned to Musgrave. "I was hoping they would be. Now if Sherlock'll just refrain from bein' a git for a while…"

John had laughed. "I think he's working on that. And Molly'll keep him right."

That was no more than the truth. If anyone could make Sherlock behave, it was Molly Hooper.

And apparently they were sorting it out, since Sherlock was still there in her flat.

He tried texting Molly, then, but though she, too, was usually quick to reply, there was, again, no answer. He frowned.

It wouldn't hurt to go over there and check things out. When Sherlock was involved, you just never knew what might be happening.

A few minutes later, Greg was on the brick walkway and approaching Molly's door when it opened and Sherlock stepped out - but not a Sherlock Greg had ever seen - or not in public at any rate. Molly's street was a quiet one, of course, but Sherlock's state - dressing gown negligently tied over what Greg strongly suspected was precisely nothing, dark curls styled _a la bed-head_ , and a somewhat glazed and strangely contented expression - was as near to indecent as made no odds.

And it was bloody one in the afternoon!

And he was holding, with tender care, a puppy.

Greg halted on the walkway and gaped. Sherlock, for his part, jerked his head up suddenly, eyes widening, and his contentment taking on more of a deer-in-the-headlights look.

"Greg! What are you doing here?" he blurted.

Greg, beginning to be amused, quirked a brow. "I've got a case, and I tried to text you but you didn't reply. What's that you've got there? A bloodhound?"

Sherlock's consternation faded to fondness as he looked at the pup, who was trying to lick his hand. "Basset Hound," he corrected. "Here, Cal, time to take care of business." He set the pup down on the grass, just off the front porch, and the little dog immediately began to sniff around with intent. Sherlock straightened, smiling at his new protégé.

But just when the pup had settled to his "business", a bit of white fluff dashed out the door and, as it passed, Sherlock uttered a cry of dismay and gave chase, onto the grass and along the flower bed next to the house. The pup joined in with a tiny, delighted bay, and Greg watched open-mouthed as Sherlock cornered the bit of fluff, which turned out to be a rather posh-looking kitten. Sherlock then caught both the animals up, one in each hand.

"Bad Hobbes!" Sherlock scolded the kitten, and then noticed that the sash of his dressing gown had loosened somewhat in the chase.

Yep. Precisely nothing on underneath.

"Bloody hell!" Sherlock muttered, with a glance at Greg. But with his hands full of pup and kitten he was unable to remedy the situation and finally growled, "Just come inside, will you?"

"Happy to," Greg told him. This was becoming more amusing by the minute.

Greg followed the comic trio into the flat, then closed the door as Sherlock bent down to carefully set his new pets on the tile floor. They bounded off to roughhouse while the detective straightened and adjusted his dressing gown, pulling the sash tight, rather firmly, before turning back to face Greg.

"So. You have a case?" Sherlock asked, briskly, looking down his nose at Greg, obviously wishing to put the whole of the previous awkwardness aside.

Greg subdued his smirk and began, "Yes, I've-"

"Sherlock, Hobbes didn't escape did he? He's not- _oh!_ "

It was Molly who'd interrupted, coming down the stairs, a note of concern in her voice, until she suddenly noticed Greg standing there. Greg felt his jaw drop and his eyes widen, but really, how could he help it? If Sherlock's fashion statement had been startling, it was nothing to this one of Molly's. She was wearing a very skimpy garment of some sheer material, white with a delicate blue flower pattern, edged with lace and fastened at the sides with blue satin ribbons. And, again, _nothing else_. Greg had only seen her out of her loose-fitting work attire that once, at that unfortunate Christmas party in Baker Street, and that was years ago, now. Really, he would have been less than human if he hadn't stared at the vision before him (and it was certainly worth staring at, he had to give her that).

But he didn't have long, for she gave a kind of horrified _Eeep!_ and turned to scurry back up the steps and out of sight.

Sherlock cleared his throat in a somewhat pointed manner. Greg turned to him, feeling a bit sheepish.

But Sherlock apparently didn't know quite what to say, either, for a moment - which was a first. He was also turning rather pink. Greg was hard put not to burst out laughing. Presently, however, Sherlock did pull himself together, and said, coldly, "I trust I may rely upon your discretion?"

Greg fought down his grin and said, "Yeah, of course you can. Won't tell a soul."

Sherlock gave a small sigh and un-pokered somewhat.

And then light footsteps were heard, coming down the steps.

It was Molly, again, now decently swathed in a long, blue satin dressing gown.

"Greg!" she said, smiling, if somewhat pink-cheeked herself. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah! Apparently things are just _f_ _ine_ ," he replied, still carefully not grinning.

Molly blushed rather pinker, but said, "We… ah… Sherlock is still recovering from… ah… everything."

Greg nodded and said, with what he knew to be admirable gravity, "It's good of you to help the lad."

But even Molly couldn't help giving a tiny snort of laughter at this, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, completely done with it. "For God's sake, he's here on a case, Molly!"

"Are you?" she asked, brows rising.

"Well, yes," said Greg. "Can't do without the world's only consulting detective for too long, now, can I?" He subdued his mirth and dug out his mobile. "Here, both of you take a look and tell me what you think."

They did take a look - Greg had brought some pictures, and he gave them a brief verbal rundown of the details.

And then they argued about what they were looking at for about five minutes.

Greg listened to the give and take of the conversation with interest. Sherlock wasn't affording her any slack, but Molly held her own, and in the end Sherlock was nodding at a couple of the points she'd brought up, and they finally came to a consensus.

"There you go," Sherlock said at last, handing the phone back to Greg. "Is that all you wanted? Good. Let me see you out."

"Not going to offer me some tea or anything?" Greg managed to look hurt for about three seconds, but then desisted as Sherlock began to grind his teeth. "Alright, Romeo, I know when I'm not wanted."

"Romeo? _Romeo?!_ " Sherlock exclaimed, outraged. "Romeo was an i _diot!_ "

Molly began to giggle helplessly, and Greg said, "Ah! But we're all idiots in love, aren't we?"

"No, we are _not_ ," Sherlock snapped, his feathers thoroughly ruffled. "Now get out! I'll contact you tomorrow. Or next week - if you're lucky."

He opened the front door and, with a sweeping motion of his arm, encouraged Greg to leave.

Greg said to Molly, "I'll bid you a very good afternoon, then, Dr. Hooper,"

"Thank you, Greg," she said, smiling.

He considered saying, _Cheers, mate!_ to Sherlock but it seemed unwise to goad the lad further. Sherlock refrained from speech as well, though he did slam the door when Greg had barely stepped out onto the front porch.

But then the sound of Molly's unbridled laughter could be heard, and Sherlock's voice, saying something sharpish, after which there was a bit of combined laughter and shrieking until it all faded into the distance - up the stairs and into the bedroom again, no doubt.

Greg could finally let loose, grinning and chuckling in delight as he made his way to the car, got in, started it, and set off down the road. Lord! What wouldn't he give to tell someone of this miraculous, unprecedented turnaround.

Sally Donovan would never believe it.

And as for Anderson, well, there'd be no living with him, for obviously he'd been right about the pair of them all along.

 **o-o-o**

 **Contrition**

About a month later, Greg asked Sherlock to come out with him on a truly baffling case, "sure to be at least an eight on the Sherlock scale of interest."

"Hmm. I doubt it," had said the consulting git, but in a strangely subdued manner. Still, he added, "Alright, come pick me up in half an hour."

Greg was, to put it mildly, taken aback. "Pick you up? You want to ride with me? In my car?" Sherlock never rode in a police car, if he could help it, even an unmarked vehicle. Greg had known him a long time and quite understood. The road to the current Sherlockian state of sobriety and domestic bliss had been long and bumpy indeed.

But all Sherlock said now was, "Yes, why not? Problem?"

"No!" Greg exclaimed. "See you at noon, then."

"Make it twelve fifteen," Sherlock said, thoughtfully. "I need to shower."

Greg's brows rose. "I'm not interrupting something again, am I?"

"No, not at all. Molly had the early shift, left at some ungodly hour."

"Ah. OK. Good. Twelve fifteen then."

The weirdness continued. Sherlock was ready on time, gave Greg a perfunctory nod, and got in the car, but was far from his usual self. He seemed strangely quiet, almost preoccupied. _Unhappily_ preoccupied.

 _Trouble in paradise?_ Greg thought, but he said nothing about that. After they'd gone a few blocks he pointed out that there was a folder of pertinent evidence sitting on the dashboard. "If you'd care to take a look."

"Oh, yes. Sorry," Sherlock said, and reached for the folder.

' _Sorry'! Good God…_

Greg kept glancing over at him as he leafed through the notes and photographs. It didn't take him long, and before more than a couple of minutes had passed the folder was closed on his lap and he was staring out the side window again. The phrase _in a brown study_ popped into Greg's head.

"Well, what do you think?" he finally prodded.

Sherlock gave a sort of shrug, and continued looking out the window, frowning, though he did offer, "Probably a five, and the brother-in-law did it, but I'll be more certain when we get there."

Greg shook his head, exasperated. Of course "truly baffling" would be child's play for Sherlock - and he wasn't even giving it his full attention.

There was something going on.

But it would have to wait.

They arrived at the scene a few minutes later and Sherlock perked up a bit. "Maybe a seven after all," he muttered, looking about him. He pulled out his little magnifying lens and went at it.

The crime scene was an old house in Camden that had seen better days, quite dilapidated, with overgrown shrubbery that included roses and lots of them. After a few minutes, Greg noticed that Sherlock seemed more interested in these flowers than in the evidence to hand.

"Oi, what are you doing? Got anything yet?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, and in his usual style he rattled off a detailed summary of the many reasons it was obvious the brother-in-law had, indeed, done it. But then, when he was finished, he added, "Now, what kind of roses do you think these are? These yellow ones."

Greg stared at him, then snapped, "How should I know? And what difference does it make?"

Sherlock stiffened at the admonitory tone, then said, "Right. I'll be in the car."

As he stalked away, Greg determined that he was going to get to the bottom of this mystery, far more baffling than the case of the murderous brother-in-law had been (apparently).

He passed on Sherlock's analysis of the case to his colleagues, who exclaimed over the clarity and perception of it.

"Yeah, well, he's good," said Greg, "as we should all know by now. But he's a bit off today, so I'll let you blokes dot the i's and cross the t's while I take him home."

Various expressions of sympathy followed, and requests that Sherlock be given their best.

"I will," Greg said, trying to smile, then bade them adieu and headed out to the car.

He slid into the driver's seat and closed the door, but did not start the motor. Instead he turned toward Sherlock and said, "Alright, what's going on? Have you been up to your old tricks with Molly? 'Cause I tell you to your head, if you start bein' a bastard to her again-"

"I haven't!" Sherlock protested, but then added, "I mean… not _lately_."

Greg lifted a brow. "So it's something from the past? It isn't like her to hold a grudge-"

"She's not." Sherlock looked away for a moment, then pulled himself together and faced Greg manfully. "If you must know, she found out last night that I _did_ remember her from university, though I'd pretended not to. That first time we first saw her at Bart's. You remember. The Johnstone case."

Greg stared, recalling the occasion clearly for all it was ages ago. He almost blurted out, _Why?!_ , but stopped himself, and frowned. And glared a bit at Sherlock, too, because he knew _exactly_ Why. So instead he asked, "How'd she find out?"

"We met a… a mutual acquaintance. Last night, at a restaurant. _He_ was a bastard, in our days at Oxford. We were all at a party, one of those all-out end-of-term things, and he lured Molly away and would've… well. He didn't. I didn't let him."

"My God! Rape?" Greg exclaimed, horrified even at this late date.

"Yes. Possibly. He was big, a rugby player, team captain or something, and very drunk. She'd had too much herself - he'd seen to that. And she was… small. Barely more than a child, really, thinking back on it. In her first year, and I was a teacher's assistant in her organic chemistry class."

"I see," said Greg, slowly, picturing how it must have been. "I suppose she was in love with you even then?"

"Noooo!" Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes. "How could she when she didn't _know_ me at all?"

Greg gave a humorless laugh. What Sherlock didn't know about women - women of all ages - could fill a book. And if the git hadn't been a young Adonis - or something even more interesting - Greg would eat that bloody deerstalker of his.

"So. You already knew she was smart, and you _used_ her schoolgirl crush. For years. Lord, no wonder she's furious!"

"Yes, she was," Sherlock said, looking worried. "She's not, now. Or she _says_ she's not. But… I'm afraid…"

"I'd be afraid, too," Greg agreed.

Sherlock said, firmly, "I have to do something more than apologize. Will you take me by a florist's shop? I thought-"

"Yellow roses!" Greg smiled. "That's a good start."

For the first time that day a bit of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Do you really think so?"

Greg laughed. "I think you'll be years making this up to her, but yeah, a dozen or two of roses, and maybe some chocolates, to start with. To go along with the groveling you'll have to do - because you know you will, right?"

The smile faded, but instead of pokering up, he just looked crestfallen. "Yes. I expect so. Let's go, then."

o-o

It was nearing six o'clock on that warm, late-spring evening when Molly walked out her kitchen door and into the back garden, took in the scene before her, and cried, "What are you _doing?!_ "

Greg straightened up and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and Sherlock, his Dolce & Gabbana dress shirt sweat stained and coming loose from his trousers, gaped at her.

"I thought you were going for drinks with Meena!" Sherlock said, almost resentfully.

"I was," Molly said, "but I begged off at the last minute." She came down the steps and crossed the patch of lawn to where they stood, shovels in hand, hard by the garden wall, an enormous hole between them - but not enormous enough for the monstrous tub of espaliered yellow rose bush that sat off to one side, flanked by a huge (and very heavy) bag of soil amendment, and a much smaller container of something called Miracle-Gro for Roses. "Sherlock, what _is_ all this?"

"I… I bought you roses, Molly," Sherlock said, with rather less than his usual confidence.

She stared at the plant, which was really a very pretty thing, if a bit out-sized.

Greg said, "He looked at some cut roses, but didn't like the idea that they'd just wilt in a few days. The florist suggested this garden center out in Battersea, nice selection, but Sherlock had to get the biggest one they had, of course. What with the size of it, and then the traffic to and from, it was a real project just getting it here."

Sherlock winced a bit. "I thought we'd be able to get it planted before you got home. I wanted to surprise you."

Molly looked at Sherlock, and then the rosebush again, and then the whole scene. And then back at Sherlock. She said, carefully not laughing, "You did."

Greg sighed in weariness and relief, as she came forward, Sherlock let his shovel fall, and they embraced and kissed. At length. With such affecting tenderness that Greg finally had to turn away, shaking his head.

Finally Greg heard Molly say, huskily, "We can finish this tomorrow. Come inside."

"I love you, Molly," came Sherlock's soft voice.

"I know. I love you, too," she said, definitely teary now, and kissed him again, very gently. Then she cleared her throat and looked over at Greg. "Would you like to come in for a drink?"

Greg laughed. "No thanks. I'll just go on home, if you're going to give up the gardening for tonight. Let me know if you need help with it tomorrow, though, eh?"

"We will," Molly said, with a somewhat tremulous smile.

"I'll text you," said Sherlock. He came over and held out his hand, and when Greg took it in a firm grip Sherlock said, "And thank you, Greg. For everything."

Greg gave him a grin and said, quite sincerely, "My pleasure, mate. Any time."

 **o-o-o**

 **The Graveyard Shift**

Here it was, two weeks before the wedding, and the level of discomfort in the morgue was such that Greg was tempted to knock Sherlock and Molly's heads together and shout, _Snap out of it!_ Molly had been all business since they'd arrived, and Sherlock seemed to have reverted to his previous mode of existence, causing her to go pale, then pink with anger by turns. She wasn't just rolling over for him anymore, though. He was smart, but she was, too, and their sniping about the details surrounding the death of Mortimer Revesby, laid out before them on the slab, was almost too fast and furious to follow.

What the devil had got into them? Greg wondered, so distracted by their antics that he almost missed that they'd come to a consensus on Revesby and Sherlock was now insisting that they all go off to the canteen for a cuppa, though there wouldn't be much sustenance available since it was the middle of the graveyard shift.

"Very well," Molly finally said, rather coldly. "I'll meet you up there."

Sherlock threw up his hands with a sound of disgust and headed for the door.

Greg hovered, uncertain, but Molly said, "Well, go on. I'll be there in five minutes."

"Yes, ma'am," said Greg, humbly, and was relieved to see her lip quiver against a smile.

He caught up with a stormy-looking Sherlock, joining him in the lift as he poked abusively at the button for the first floor.

"Sherlock…" Greg began as the doors closed.

"What?" Sherlock glared.

Greg lifted a brow. "You know you're marrying her in two weeks, right?"

Some of Sherlock's stiffness seemed to abate. "I… it must look odd to you…"

"It looks _very_ odd. I mean, considering." Greg thought of these last six months, the obvious love between them, their tender regard for one another.

Sherlock said, "She's been… a trifle under the weather. Off her feed, so to speak. I specifically didn't want her working any more graveyard shifts, and then she insisted she had to take this one, fill in for that dolt Sachdev so he could fly off to India for some family gathering. Or for Mike Stamford, really, since he'd agreed to take Sachdev's shifts but couldn't tonight, had tickets to take the family to some musical and couldn't be here in time. But that's Molly for you. Always letting people take advantage."

Greg refrained from saying, _Yeah, and who's the worst offender in_ _that_ _category, eh?_ , but Sherlock must've seen he was thinking it for he flushed and looked away, momentarily disconcerted.

The doors opened then and they made their way out and down the hall to the canteen, nice and quiet in the wee hours. There was a small selection of cold comestibles, and drinks of all sorts. Greg picked up a chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee for himself, and Sherlock got teas (one of them decaffeinated, Greg noticed), and a likely dish of tapioca pudding with a dab of whipped cream for Molly ("She likes this pap. God knows why.")

They sat down at one of the many empty tables, and Sherlock put one packet of sugar in Molly's tea (the decaf) and three in his own. Then he sat there, sipping and brooding, and making desultory replies to Greg's attempts at small talk, until finally Molly came in, about five minutes later.

She pursed her lips, but her eyes were softer than they'd been downstairs as she looked at her maddening fiancé. Greg noticed that she did look a bit pale, tired maybe. Sherlock might be right… there was something strange about the whole situation... and the wedding moved forward so suddenly, too, and the odd excuse Sherlock had presented for doing so when Greg had verbally RSVP'd to him the previous week…

Sherlock stood up and pulled out a chair for Molly, and Greg was relieved to see that their eyes were soft on one another, now. Maybe the little storm was blowing over…

But then, as Sherlock sat down again, Molly looked for the first time at the dish of tapioca. An odd, very uncomfortable expression swept over her face and she suddenly went dead white.

"Molly?" Sherlock said sharply, sitting up very straight.

Molly glanced up at him, said, rather muffled, "Have to use the loo," and was up and out of the room like a shot.

Pursued by an obviously panicked Sherlock.

And of course Greg had to leap up and chase after them as well.

He was down the hall in time to see Molly disappear into the loo, and it was evident that Sherlock was going to follow her right into the ladies'.

"Sherlock!" Greg half-shouted, in a sort of nebulous warning, but he was ignored and Sherlock pushed his way inside.

A female shriek that was not Molly's sounded, then Sherlock's scathing reply of "Get _OUT!_ " was heard.

As Greg came up to the door, the shrieker emerged, an older woman, red faced and blazing mad. "This is outrageous! Where is the manager!" she demanded, but continued on down the hall without waiting for any reply from Greg.

Greg frowned after the woman, and hesitated, hearing some vague sounds from inside the loo that might have been retching, and Sherlock speaking in deep, soothing tones. He decided that it would be the better part of valor to just stay outside for a bit, guarding the door from intruders.

Presently, however, all was quiet again. There was no sign of anyone coming to roust out any trespassing males of the species. And finally Greg left his post and shoved his way inside, to make sure everyone was still alive.

He found them in one of the stalls, Sherlock seated on the toilet with a drooping Molly in his lap, her hand crushing the life out of his coat lapel while she softly wept into the opposite shoulder of it. Sherlock's cheek was laid against her hair, and he was murmuring something, his arms tight around her.

Greg felt more than a little awkward, interrupting them, but he cleared his throat and said, "Everything OK? You… ah… need anything?"

Molly sat up, tear-streaked and sniffling, and Sherlock got a long strip off the loo roll and handed it to her. While she dried her tears and blew her nose, he said to Greg, "She's going home. I've already texted Mike."

"But I'll be on call," Molly said to Sherlock, with gentle insistence.

"Yes, very well," Sherlock said, in the interest of détente. "And I'll come with you if you have to return tonight. But _no more_ , for _all_ our sakes. Er… I mean _both_." Sherlock glanced furtively at Greg. "Her's and mine."

Greg gave him a crooked smile. "And junior's?"

Molly gave a watery chuckle and laid her head against Sherlock's shoulder again, closing her eyes for a moment.

But Sherlock flushed, hesitated, then said, stiffly, "We don't want it generally known as yet."

Greg was grinning, now. "So that's why the wedding's in the dead of winter. I was wondering if that might be it. How far along?"

"Just six weeks," said Sherlock, sounding a bit worried.

"But I'm fine!" Molly said, sitting up again, and looking at Greg for the first time. "It's just a little nausea. Morning sickness, you know, because of the hormonal changes. Though unfortunately it's not just in the morning, in spite of the name. I don't think I'll be able to look at tapioca pudding again for a while - and I didn't even get to eat any!"

Sherlock smiled. "I'll make you some dry toast when we get home."

"Yes," said Molly. "I think I'd like that."

They got up, then, and when Molly went over to the sink and mirror to address the ravages (which really were very minor - there was some color back in her cheeks and a glow of peace in her expression), Sherlock straightened his slightly crumpled and tear-stained coat and, indeed, his whole person, and said to Greg, "I… uh… _once again_ , I trust we can rely on your discretion?"

Greg chuckled to see him like this, so worried, and so proud, all at the same time.

How far he'd come. How far they'd all come.

So he said, "Of course you can. Molly Hooper isn't the only one who can keep a secret now, is she?" And he gave the young git a congratulatory slap on the shoulder.

~.~


	8. Compromise

_**~ Compromise ~**_

 _For Ellis_Hendricks who wanted more of Sherlock and Molly's conflict over the decor of the master bedroom suite as the second phase of the resurrection of Musgrave goes forward._

* * *

The coast was clear. Dad was out checking his beehives, and Mum was busy in the kitchen, putting a quick breakfast together for all of them before finishing her packing for her weekend away.

"I really should go help your mum," Rosie said, looking worried.

"No, Gwen's with her, it's fine," Will said, referring to their live-in housemaid, Gwen Babcock, formerly a member of his father's homeless network. With a house as big as Musgrave Hall it was essential to have assistance with the upkeep, and Gwen had proven herself "a treasure" over the last year, Mum said.

"Gwen makes the _best_ hot chocolate," said ten-year-old Daisy, still in her pyjamas, pink dressing gown, and puffy unicorn slippers as she came to stand beside Rosie and took her hand. Rosie looked down with that same fond smile she'd always had for Will's little sister.

Though not so little, anymore. Daisy's advancing maturity was always startlingly obvious to Will, and now Jon, too, when they came home on holiday from Eton. And Daisy herself would soon be off to Wycombe Abbey, if all went according to plan. Their paternal grandmother had attended that prestigious all girls boarding school, and their great grandmother before that. A trust had been established by Millicent Holmes for Daisy in the event her beloved granddaughter saw fit to grant her dying wish and carry on the tradition. Daisy, who'd initially balked at the idea, had recently visited the school with Mum and Rosie and now was all for it, though Will suspected she'd be pretty homesick when she started in September, and not just because she'd be on her own for the first time, away from Mum and Dad.

Daisy had adored Musgrave from the day she'd first set foot in the place and hadn't missed London in the least when they'd removed to the (then) dilapidated ancestral pile. With both Will and Jon up at Eton, Daisy had run a bit wild in her new surroundings, overwhelmed by the possibilities of fresh air, vast grounds, and the mostly open countryside that lay beyond the borders of the estate. She'd caused a couple of scares, and some stern measures had been taken to curb this unwise behavior. Will still laughed, remembering the dramatic emails he'd received from her - you'd have thought their parents were beating her, or keeping her locked in a dark cupboard on bread and water. He'd emailed back, expressing some sympathy but adding a bit of a scold of his own, and an exhortation to "be good and take care of Mum and Dad for me - they're not getting any younger, you know", and, remarkably, that seemed to have done the trick. She'd even apologized to Mum and Dad (eventually) and had settled in, attending to her studies, watching the renovations with fascination, and mostly obeying the edict to stay within sight of the house when she was once again allowed go outside without an adult or older sibling.

And now that her very own special bedroom had been completed, she'd taken to spending a great deal of time there, reading, playing with the dolls and things she still loved, and… well… growing up.

They all were. Will would soon join Rosie at Oxford, and Jon, with his sharp mind and easy manner, was already firmly entrenched as one of the leading lights of his class at Eton. Will was both proud and a little envious of his brother's success, since Will's first year at the school had not gone that smoothly. But then, he hadn't had the presence and occasional advice of an older sibling when he'd started. Dad, in this one instance, had been of little help, since he'd detested school (or so he'd averred), but ultimately Mum and Uncle Mycroft had given Will some excellent counsel, and by his third year he had found his niche and was the nominal leader of a small group of like-minded mates.

He was looking forward to seeing his mates again, actually, because this month at home hadn't been the holiday of his dreams by any means.

He'd heard the old story about home renovation being a sort of trial by fire for any marriage, and with a huge, badly damaged place like Musgrave in the equation it was, at times, little short of hellish. That this particular time got top marks for hellishness seemed absurd - but then he had begun to gather, over the last few years, just how absurd his parents could be. They'd weathered the lengthy and expensive structural repairs alright, and had survived the ground floor phase with their sanity intact, even the kitchen, which had come out so beautifully after being such a bone of contention. But this third phase, the renovation of the first floor bedrooms, and in particular their master suite, seemed likely to be the straw that broke the camel's back.

As Jon joined them with a yawn and a "G'morning," Will led Rosie and his siblings inside the vast bedroom.

"Here it is," he said to Rosie. "Mum hates it."

Rosie looked about her, frowning. "It is very different from their bedroom in London. Elegant, though. It… looks like your father. Like he chose everything, the furniture, the curtains, the carpet."

"He was tired of frills, he said," Jon sniffed. "And I can see his point. He didn't take much from Baker Street when they got married, and he said he liked the way Mum had decorated her flat, it was so her. But when it came to this place, he wanted something _classic_. Which it is. But Mum's _really_ not happy with the way it turned out."

Will elaborated, "She was willing to compromise, but she gave too much ground, and when she was up at Edinburgh University for that conference, Dad finished it off with these linens, those heavy curtains. Mum was pretty upset. They've actually been… well, having some pretty heated discussions about it."

"They _fight_ ," Daisy said, baldly. "Mum even slept on the sofa in the library one night. And Dad _let_ her!"

"Oh, how dreadful!" Rosie exclaimed. "But this is silly, how can they let such a thing come between them?"

"I don't know," said Will. "I think they're better now- after that one night. But Mum's still-"

"Still what?" came Dad's voice behind them.

They all gasped and whirled to face him.

He had a raised brow and his eyes were a bit narrowed, but there was a smile in them, too, and on his lips. And he said, "Talking about the situation with the decor?"

They were all of them red-faced, except Daisy, who said with her usual forthright honesty, "Mum doesn't like it, Daddy. Not really."

He gave a sort of sad chuckle. "She doesn't, does she? And the situation's been fairly worrying for the lot of you, I suppose."

Rosie ventured to ask, "Did she really sleep on the sofa one night, Uncle Sherlock?"

"She did," he admitted. "That was certainly a low point in the proceedings. We did make it up the following day, of course, which was rather… hmmm… yes… well, in any case, we haven't been parted since." He looked at each of them and said, quite seriously, "May I extend our sincere apologies. The revelation that one's parents are only human is a distressing one, I know. However, as you know, she'll be off to London to visit her friend Meena for the weekend, after we all eat breakfast, and your dad will be here this evening, Rosie. And it may be that I've something up my sleeve that will both appease my wife and restore balance to the universe. Would all of you like to help set it in motion?"

"Yes, of course," exclaimed Will, one voice in a chorus of agreement.

"But what is it? What are we going to do?" demanded Daisy.

Jon said quickly, "Don't tell her, Dad, you know she can't keep a secret."

Before Daisy could protest, Dad held up a hand. "After your mother's out of here. Then I'll tell all of you, and show you everything. Till then, mum's the word."

" _Mum's_ the word!" Jon chuckled, and Will and Rosie couldn't help grinning, too.

But Daisy, annoyed (and annoyingly pert) put her nose in the air and quoted, " _He who would pun would pick a pocket_."

Dad only looked amused and a bit impressed. "Very good! And true as well. Though just because _I_ can, don't assume that gives you - _any_ of you - leave to do so."

"Dad," said Jon, with a roll of his eyes, "you told us that _years_ ago, when you first taught us how to do it."

"Hmm. So I did. We'll have a competition later, see who's the best pickpocket among us."

"After Mum leaves, of course." Will grinned.

"Of course," Dad agreed, and gave them a wink.

 **o-o-o**

They were bloody exhausted by the time 6PM rolled around on Sunday evening and Mum was due home, but it was a good kind of exhaustion, the weariness of people who'd worked hard and accomplished great things in a very short span of time. Now they were all showered and dressed in clean, comfortable clothes, and Rosie, who was, as always, amazing, was putting together dinner - and not just any old thing, either. She'd discovered a big cut of beef in the freezer the previous evening, when they were getting together some pizza and salad after their long Saturday, and now she was putting together a real Sunday Roast for all of them. Her dad looked ready to burst with pride, just from the delicious smell of it, and Will, who'd been helping her a bit, setting the table and the like, now that he was cleaned up, was afraid he was more in love with her than ever.

That love was Will's secret delight and agony, and would have to stay a secret for a number of years yet. Maybe the rest of his life, if Rosie met someone else. Happily, she had thus far eschewed serious romantic entanglements, and the older they got, the less that two years between them seemed to matter. Time would tell if anything would come of it… if the hope and fondest wish of Will's heart was destined to be fulfilled. Will was no longer the skinny, nerdish little brother of his early days at Eton. And next year both he and Rosie would be at Oxford…

Will's musings were (perhaps fortunately) interrupted by Mum's arrival. He tossed the stack of serviettes he'd been getting ready to fold onto the dining room table, smiled at Rosie as she came bustling through from the kitchen, and together they hurried into the foyer just as Mum was being attacked by Daisy, who seemed in desperate need of hugs.

"Heavens, what smells so delicious!" Mum exclaimed, laughing as she embraced her daughter.

Daisy said, "Rosie's cooking, Mum!"

"Sunday Roast with all the trimmings," Rosie said, with justifiable pride. She smiled at her dad, who was just coming in from the library with Dad and Jon. "Couldn't have those cooking lessons go to waste."

"Best money I ever spent," John Watson said, beaming at his daughter.

But Dad said to Mum, "About time you got here, I was starting to worry."

They kissed, and Mum said, "Silly, I texted you with my ETA!"

"Yes, but we have a surprise for you," said Dad, quite casually, "so every minute's been torture. Come. Let us show you."

"Let me take off my coat!" Mum exclaimed, but Dad paid no heed, just pulled her along toward the staircase. "Sherlock!"

"Nope, can't wait any longer, come with me, Mrs. Holmes."

Will, Jon, Rosie and Daisy pounded up the stairs ahead of them, and John Watson brought up the rear. A half-minute later they were all gathered by the doors to the Master Suite, Mum laughing and curious, and Dad saying with a smile, "Open it up!"

Will and Jon did so, one to each door, and grinned as Mum was escorted in, and her laughter turned to astonishment.

The tone of the room had altered completely. Where there had been heavy, deep blue drapes over the windows, there were now filmy, sheer white swags. The same filmy material formed a cloud-like canopy for the big four-poster bed, and the bed itself was now covered with a lush-looking duvet of white festooned with sprays of small blue flowers. There were pillow shams to match the duvet, with a couple of throw-pillows placed as accents, one the deep blue of the bedskirt (the only piece retained of the linen set Dad had originally installed), and one of yellow satin, edged with a ruffle and adorned with some very fine embroidered birds. There were also white lace and linen scarves of simple but elegant design on the nightstands, and a matching runner on the chest of drawers.

The carpeted floor, which had been an unbroken expanse of the same deep blue as the linens and drapes, now sported a vast oriental rug in shades of cream, pink, and pale blue. It lay between the foot of the bed and the small hearth, in which a fire was cheerfully burning. And above the fire, where a large seascape had previously hung, there was now a mirror in a gilded frame.

The mirror matched the one new piece of furniture in the transformed room: a vanity.

"It's antique, Louis XVI style," Dad told her when Mum moved toward it with a look of disbelief, "though it's not as old as that, maybe early 1900's, and the stool is far more recent, but looked more comfortable than the original. Do you like it?"

Mum stared for another moment, then turned to Dad and said, in a shaking voice, "I love it! Oh, Sherlock! How-"

But Dad cut her short. "No weeping, now, you haven't even seen the loo, yet."

"You did the bath, too?" Mum turned and half stumbled toward the door to the loo, in the corner of the room, and then gripped the doorframe, white-knuckled. "Oh, my God! It's gorgeous!"

Will came up beside his stunned mother (and grinning father) and offered, "That took the longest to do, changing out the wallpaper and paint. Dad had all the materials and equipment, though, so we got it done."

And John Watson said, with a note of pride, "I ran into the village and got those new fixtures for the sink and the bath, and switched them out. Sherlock hadn't thought of that."

"Oh, John!" Mum said, turning to him, with tears in her eyes. But then her gaze widened. "And all of you! How can I ever thank you?"

Will just chuckled, seeing that he and Jon and Daisy could never repay what they owed their mother. Rosie looked teary, too, and John Watson smiled. But Dad said, with his usual cheek, "I'm sure we can think of something," and Mum gave a shout of laughter and pretty much threw herself into his arms.

John quietly but firmly herded everyone else out of the room, silencing Daisy with a look, and once they were back out in the hall and had closed the double doors he said, "That went well. And now for dinner, eh?"

And Rosie gave a start of dismay. "My Yorkshire Pudding! _Blast!_ " she exclaimed, and was running for the stairs.

Daisy ran after her, demanding, "What's wrong?"

And Rosie's voice came drifting back, "I should have turned the oven down ten minutes ago!"

But Rosie's dad just chuckled. "Ah, well. We'll still have the potatoes, right. Everything back to as normal as it'll ever be. Let's go down, lads. I bought a bottle of champagne in the village, too, when I went in for those fancy fixtures for the bath. I believe the time's come to open it."

~.~


End file.
